


Dishes

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, pre-rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumple can’t sleep, and Belle has too much work on her hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dishes

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the verse: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don't Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

“I didn't know it was a bad thing!” Bae insisted, climbing the stairs two steps in front of his father, but constantly slowing down to keep up with his rhythm. “He called her that _all_ day! I thought it was, like, her nickname, or something!”

“Right,” Rumple said, noncommittally.

“I mean, Princess is not a bad word,” Bae continued, not knowing if he was still in trouble. Once dinner was over, his father announced that they were going to their bedrooms and didn't say another word when his son started ranting. “I thought, I don't know, maybe he likes her and she thinks it's nice. Why would grandpa call her that if she doesn't like it?”

“Because he likes to be a prick sometimes.”

Bae looked at him from the top of the stairs, surprised by his the choice of words. Rumple glanced at him, but then concentrated on the slow climbing. His leg was killing him, he was frustrated and angry, and he wasn't thinking clearly. In moments like this, Aunt Violet always said it was best to keep your mouth shut, and it would do him good to heed her advice right now.

“He didn't seem like a prick,” Bae said, coy.

“Don't say that word. And yes, I know that makes me a hypocrite, but that is my prerogative as a father.”

He held on to the banister with his free hand and reached the second floor. _Finally!_ All he needed now was a shower and the chance to lie down.

“Your leg is getting worse, isn't it?”

Rumple looked at his son. Bae was worried. Had there been a time when his boy had _not_ been worried about something? If so, he couldn't remember.

“I just had a rough day. Long walks.”

Bae wasn't buying it. Truth was, there had been too many long walks and unexpected runs the past year. Add to that the countless jobs he had attempted that were less than suitable for a man with a cane, and a bad ankle was turning into a serious problem.

“I just need to lie down. I'll be alright tomorrow.”

“Maybe grandpa could pay for a doctor-”

“Grandpa has done enough. Besides, this is none of his concern.”

“Papa-”

“I'm used to it, Baelfire,” he said, holding his son's shoulder and pulling him down the corridor. He changed the subject before Bae could say anything else. “You shouldn't have called Belle that, and you also shouldn't have stared at her this morning.”

Baelfire's expression was pained. “Do you think she noticed?”

Rumple would have laughed if he wasn't so tired. “Women always notice, Bae. And you were not exactly being subtle.”

Bae avoided his eyes. “I was just- I wasn't trying to... be, like... looking at, uhm-” but he trailed off, unable to justify himself. Not that there had to be one. He was fourteen and Belle was a beautiful girl in an inappropriate outfit. It wasn't hard to do the math. Not that Rumple would tell him that and let him off the hook so easily. When Bae couldn't find an excuse, he said, “I'll apologize to her in the morning.”

“She'll appreciate that, I'm sure.”

Bae stopped in front of his bedroom. “It's early to turn in.”

“Yes, but there's only so much I can take of your grandfather.”

“You _really_ don't like him.”

Though it wasn't posed as a question, there was still curiosity there. Bae wanted to know about Malcolm and what had happened between father and son to cause such mistrust. After all, his grandfather didn't seem all that bad. He'd given them two bedrooms, a welcome feast, and even convinced Rumple to let him drink a little bit of wine. That was enough to keep a teenager happy.

For the first time in years, Rumple actually felt the urge to sit Bae down and tell him everything. Ever since his son was little, he'd barely mentioned Malcolm's name, Storybrooke, or his own childhood. Certain things were better left in the past. But now, things had changed. To bring the boy up to speed with Malcolm Gold and everything that had gone wrong between them might be a necessity. He wouldn't like Bae to trust the old man, perhaps even like him, and then have his heart broken. Milah had caused him enough heartache for a lifetime.

Yes, he'd have to have that talk with Bae. But not tonight. He'd had enough difficult conversations for a day.

Rumple said, “You can go downstairs if you'd like, son. Just don't go into his study, he likes privacy after dinner.”

“It's fine, we, uhn, we can play canasta. If you'd like?”

Rumple recognized that as an attempt to cheer him up. Of all the card games he taught his son while they were hopping from one place to another (and he taught him _plenty_ ), that was the one Bae grew bored of the quickest. Too many rules, too much math. But he still indulged his father on occasion, particularly when Rumple looked like he could use a break.

“You're a good son, you know that?” he said, smoothing his hair down. “But not tonight. I'm not thinking straight.” He smirked. “Although, that might mean you have a chance to win, after all.”

“Ha ha, dad. Very funny.”

Rumple gave him a kiss and went into his own room. Before dinner, he'd peeked inside, checking if everything was in order, but didn't feel like coming in. Now, he stood with his back to the door, staring at the little bedroom that had once been his – and all he wanted was to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Well, leaving might not be an option, but stalling was. He took a change of clothes and a towel and went to take a shower. Unfortunately, that only occupied his time for fifteen minutes (as limited per contract), and soon he was staring at his bedroom door again, trying to find more excuses not to go inside. He didn't know what to do right now. His ankle was bothering him and it'd do him good to lie down, but at the same time, the thought of going inside was unappealing. He'd spent too many years in that bedroom, either avoiding or being avoided by his father. The moment he left to be with Milah, he didn't spare that room a second glance because there was nothing worth remembering it for. Things were going to get better, because they couldn't possibly get worse.

Had he really been that naive once?

Right now, canasta didn't sound like such a bad idea, and he knocked on Bae's door to see if he was still up to it. But as it turned out, the boy was already asleep, despite his claims that it was too early to turn in. Apparently, he'd tried to read a comic book and fallen asleep before he reached page five. All Rumple could do was pull up the covers and turn off the light. Bae didn't even stir. It was like an entire year of exhaustion had caught up with him.

What was left for him to do now? Water! He couldn't sleep without a glass of water. He'd have to walk down and up the stairs again, but a swollen ankle seemed like a small price to pay.

Malcolm was in his study, as predicted. But Belle was still in the kitchen, elbows deep in a pile of dishes and pans. It seemed that the cook had left behind quite a mess for her to clean, which Malcolm had probably requested, come to think of it. He seemed to take pleasure in giving the poor girl a hard time.

“You're still here,” he remarked, as a greeting.

Belle looked over her shoulder. How old was she? Couldn't be much more than twenty. But she looked tired, with soft wrinkles on her face and bags under her eyes. Working for his father was going to age her quickly. Her impeccable make-up was smudged.

“I just got around to washing this, Mr. Gold,” she answered, as if she were apologizing for her presence.

“Can't you do that in the morning? It's rather late.”

“Your father won't-”

“Yes,” he said. “I keep forgetting who you work for.”

“It's my job,” she stated, sounding resigned with that fact, even if a little bitter.

“I just came to get a glass of water.”

“Of course.”

It wasn't until she had dried her hands and headed for the cupboard that he realized Belle thought he was expecting her to serve him.

“No, no, please, I can do that on my own,” he stopped her.

Belle turned, a glass already in her hand. “Your father-”

“He's not here. And if things haven't changed much in the last decade, he's slowly but effectively getting drunk in his study as we speak.”

Belle gave him the faintest smile. “I suppose things haven't changed much. I poured him what was left of the wine myself.”

What was left of the wine was over half a bottle. Rumple could imagine Belle standing in the corner, waiting as the man downed glass after glass, making lewd comments. All the while, her mind was on the dishes and all the work she still had to do before finally being allowed to leave the house. Except that she couldn't do it because she had to entertain the old man.

“Please, just do what you have to. I can help myself.”

“As you wish, sir.”

She passed him the glass and went back to the sink. Rumple poured from the filter himself and waited by the kitchen isle, listening to the sound of dishes and water, but looking at the floor. After a year of sharing small apartments and motel rooms with his son, it felt strange to be in the kitchen with another person that wasn't Baelfire, especially such a young woman. He couldn't help but feel self-conscious of his old pajamas and robe. He looked out of place, a rumpled man in a fancy house. Even Belle looked like she belonged more than he did.

With the corner of his eye, Rumple caught a glimpse of Belle trying to look at him discreetly. She seemed tense, probably because she was used to Malcolm following her around just so he could stare at her in that uniform. It was bound to make her suspicious. Bae calling her Princess couldn't have helped. She probably thought father, son and grandson were all equally perverted. The best course of action was to wish her goodnight and let her be, but going back upstairs wasn't any more appealing now than it was five minutes ago.

“I'm sorry about Baelfire,” he said. He'd never been good with conversation, but that seemed like a good place to start. “For calling you that.”

“It's alright, sir,” she said, an automatic response.

“It's not. He's old enough to know better. But he heard my father saying that all day and he thought... well, that he didn't mean anything by it.” Rumple paused to drink his water. “Anyway, I've talked to him and he's going to apologize in the morning. Feel free to give him hell.”

“Give him hell? That will be fun,” she said, sounding amused for the first time. “But it's alright, sir. He was very respectful all day. I'm sure he didn't mean to offend me.”

“Yes. He's just... you know.”

“He's a teenager,” Belle said. “Grown men are the real problem.”

“Yes, that,” Rumple sighed, rubbing his temple of his free hand. “I feel like I should apologize for him as well.”

“I don't see how that's your fault, either.”

He shrugged.

She placed a dish on the rack and sighed. “This is going to take forever.”

“I can help with that.”

“What, no. Of course not.”

But Rumple had already reached for the dishcloth. He needed a distraction, just as much as the girl needed a break.

“Mr. Gold, you shouldn't-”

“It's too early to go to bed, Belle,” he said. “And if you're worried about my father, once he starts to drink he can only find the way to his own bed.”

Belle still looked hesitant. Malcolm probably used any excuse to pay her less than he should. And if what he'd said two days ago was true, Belle's financial situation was just as bad as his own. Or else, why would she be here?

“If you don't mind, sir,” she finally said.

“Not at all. I'm in no hurry to go back upstairs,” he said, picking up a few spoons to dry.

There wasn't much talk after that, something both of them were fine with. But working side by side in silence was soothing. Belle was probably just as tired as he was, perhaps more so since she'd spent her Sunday getting their bedrooms ready. They kept their eyes on their own tasks and, before Rumple knew it, he was putting away the last pile of plates - and if anyone needed proof that Malcolm Gold fiercely opposed change, it was that kitchen, because everything was left exactly like Rumple remembered.

“New plates, same places,” he remarked.

Belle look up briefly. “Pardon me?”

“He still keeps the dishes here,” he explained. “Nothing's changed.”

“Oh,” she said, and he thought she'd drop the subject and go back to wiping the sink clean. But after a beat, she said, “You've always helped around?”

“Sometimes. He didn't like it, though.”

“Why?”

“Something about the maids being paid to do their jobs. Or boys don't do dishes, or another half-ass excuse.”

“I bet he had quite a few of those.”

“I bet he still does.”

That got a giggle out of her. Young and sweet and so much better than “yes, sir” and “no, sir”.

Belle stepped back and looked at the pristine sink. “I think our work here is done.”

“Indeed,” he said.

She looked at him, but didn't say a word.

He asked, “What?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I just... wanted something to do,” he explained.

“Is it the bed?”

“The bed?”

“Because I don't think that mattress is any good,” she said, pointing a finger towards his bedroom, where said mattress lied. Rumple had only glanced at it, but she was probably right.

“No. No, the bed is fine. I... I'm just being...”

Rumple thought it over. How could he explain this? That going upstairs and sleeping on that bed – _his_ bed – would feel like a point of no return? That, for as long as he was awake, he could still wait for a miracle? A solution could fall from the sky and into his hands at any moment, and he could wake up Baelfire to tell him they'd leave that place for good, and start their lives somewhere else.

“I feel wired, that's all,” he said, instead. Sometimes, lying was just simpler.

“I could make you some tea,” Belle offered, out of kindness, rather than servitude. After the year he'd had, it felt good to find a nice soul.

“It's alright, Belle. You should go home.”

“I don't live that far. You know the flower shop?”

He made an effort to remember. “ _Only a Rose_? The one close to the pawnshop?”

“ _Game of Thorns_ ,” Belle corrected. “Dad changed the name after my mother passed away.”

Rumple looked at her, surprised. “You're the florist's daughter.”

Belle nodded. He should have guessed it. How many Aussies were there in Storybrooke? He remembered the florist, a large man who spoke in a thick accent and without smiling. His hands were strong, but he always handled his flowers so delicately it was an interesting contrast.

And then he was hit by the memory of a scrawny girl in frumpy hand-me-downs, hiding behind a pile of books.

“Wait...” he said. “Are you the one who used to scatter her books all over the-”

“The counter, yes,” Belle said, giggling again. “I still do. Drives my dad crazy.”

“You sold me a rose, once.”

She frowned. “I did?”

“Well. You tried. You couldn't find a calculator because the books were in the way. Then you didn't know how much to charge for a single rose, because you only sold them by the dozen.”

Belle laughed, the memory seemingly coming to her. “God, I remember that. In the end, you just did all the math because I suck at it.”

“All that work for a rose,” he mused. He couldn't even remember if Milah had liked it. She probably didn't, but back then she was still making an effort to make their marriage work, so she might have given him a kiss and pretended to appreciate the gesture.

“I didn't know you were his son,” Belle said. “Back then, I mean.”

“Yes, well,” he said, vaguely. That was the first pleasant memory he could think of since arriving in Storybrooke, and he'd like to keep it that way. There was no need to bring his father into the conversation. “I should go to bed. And you should-”

“I should go home. Yes. Thank you for all your help.”

With a slight bow of her head, she turned around and left the kitchen.

Slipping into bed still took him a while. A long climb up the stairs, another check on Bae, a couple of minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to find anything else to do, then finally giving up on his own stubbornness and lying down. As his back hit the mattress, he immediately understood what Belle was talking about. It was truly horrible, so thin that he could feel the bed slats underneath him. Still, he shouldn't complain. He'd slept on worse. At least now he had pillows and a good set of sheets and blankets. And a roof above his head, a safe place to stay.

He allowed himself to look around the bedroom once before shutting his eyes. If he spent too long staring at the walls, he'd think back on the life he used to have when that bedroom first belonged to him, and he's just found a good memory to hold on to for the rest of the night. He'd much rather think of the flower shop, that crammed up, colorful place that was so much more alive than the rest of town, with a little girl behind the counter, trying to make her parents proud.

That was a much better thought to send him off to sleep.

 


End file.
